


Evil Author Day 2016

by Winter_of_our_Discontent



Category: Supernatural, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 04:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6037693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Evil Author Day: The day when authors post pieces from unpublished WIPs with no guarantees of continuance. </p><p>So here are five chapters which each contain beginnings of <i>different</i> unfinished stories I've got in progress. If you like, you can comment and let me know which you'd like me to work on first.</p><p>Mostly SPN/Destiel, one WtNV/Cecilos.</p><p>See each chapter for more information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Be Not Forgetful - (SPN Dean/Castiel)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my contribution to Evil Author Day 2016! Feel free to leave comments, thoughts, or preferences on any of the stories. 
> 
> ...no promises, though. It's called Evil Author Day for a reason.
> 
> (Love you guys, though! I promise I'll try. So okay, one promise.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural Season Four canon divergence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural Season Four canon divergence.

“SHIT!” Dean said, shoving the motel room door open hard enough to hit the wall and rattle the frames of the generic wall art.

 

“Keep your voice down, Dean!” Sam said, though he sympathized, he really did. He always did. But he was the voice of reason here, as usual, and a noise complaint wasn’t going to help. He shut the door behind him a good deal more gingerly than it had been opened, securing the deadbolt out of habit.

 

“Shit shit shit shit fuck damn shit balls…” Dean continued, the last said in such a pitch-perfect imitation of Bobby that Sam couldn’t help but snicker a bit. Which made Dean snort, and finally the tension broke as they started laughing.

 

Dean flopped down on the bed, then folded his arms under his head. “Frickin’ angels, man. Just when I think they can’t get  _ more _ annoying.”

 

“They sure don’t get any smarter,” Sam said with a sigh as he slumped down next to Dean, the way they’d done when they were younger. “Though that is kind of a good thing, right?” he asked, nudging Dean with his shoulder. 

 

Dean snorted again. “What I’d  _ like _ is for them to be smart enough to decide they don’t actually want Apocalypse Tomorrow.”

 

“Yeah,” Sam said mournfully. “Is it really that bad, you think? Heaven? That they’d rather…” he waved a hand around to indicate the imminent destruction of all things on earth, “than be up there?”

 

“Really hopin’ we don’t have to find out any time soon, Sammy.” Dean sighed. “I just wanna go back to when things were simple.”

 

Now it was Sam’s turn to snort. “And when was that exactly, Dean?”

 

“You know what I mean. Bitch.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

Dean put folded his arms under his head and fell silent, though Sam could tell from the rhythm of his breathing that he wasn’t sleeping.

 

“So what are we gonna do, Dean?” Sam whispered, small and scared, like the child he’d never exactly been allowed to be. Because when all was said and done, he still trusted his big brother to somehow  _ fix _ things. 

 

Dean remained silent, but it was a thoughtful, comfortable silence shared between them. The kind that meant he was thinking.

 

It was easy to underestimate Dean, Sam even did it occasionally, because he was so  _ good _ at seeming like less than he was. Because Sam was the smart one and his brother the fighter, and apparently no one ever stopped to consider that no one lasts as long as he’s done as a hunter without being able to hold your own in a fight, and no one is as good at fighting as Dean is without having equally solid skills in strategy.

 

Idjits.

 

“Okay, I have a plan,” Dean finally said.

 

“Great!”

 

“You’re not gonna like it.”

 

“Less great.”

 

“In fact, you’re gonna hate it.”

 

“Dean…”

 

“We’re going to say yes.”

 

“WHAT?”

 

Dean winced at Sam’s volume. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

 

“But…”

 

“I  _ know. _ ”

 

“The WHOLE PLAN was to keep saying no, both of us.”

 

“I  **know.** ”

 

“FREE WILL, Dean.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“STOPPING the Apocalypse.”

 

“Yeah, no, we’re still doing that, one hundred percent Apocalypse-free zone here, Sammy.”

 

“But…”

 

“We say yes to  _ being the vessels _ for a coupla archangels plannin’ a grudgematch.”

 

“Oh. But…”

 

“Nope.”

 

“So when we  _ do _ …”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Then  _ they _ can’t…”

 

“Right. An’ in the meantime, we can get ‘em to tone it down some, protect some people.”

 

“But…”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“What if it doesn’t work?”

 

“Then, Sammy, we go with plan D. Nuclear option.”

 

They lay there in silence, each staring, unseeing, at the yellowed motel ceiling.

 

“Tell you one thing, though. Whatever happens, I can’t wait to see the look on Zachariah’s face before I gank him.”


	2. A Most Vehement Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Most Vehement Flame - SPN, Dean/Castiel
> 
> Set during Season Nine, goes AU pretty quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Most Vehement Flame - SPN, Dean/Castiel
> 
> Set during Season Nine, goes AU pretty quickly.

They were out of beer again. Dean didn’t remember drinking it, but he also didn’t believe in coincidences, and a row of empty bottles and a mouth that tasted like a freshly opened grave meant that remembered or not, it was all on him. He got up from the table, a lurching movement that sent various bits of paper scattering onto the floor. Joints popped loudly as he stretched his arms above his head and then from side to side. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a really good night’s sleep, but fuck, he also couldn’t remember all that damn beer, so for all he knew he’d slept just fine last Thursday or something. 

 

Okay, maybe not Thursday.

 

Speaking of Thursday… maybe now Cas was juiced up again, he could do that finger-forehead-Professor X-angel-whammy thing and Dean could actually grab some honest shuteye. ‘Cause seriously, if he didn’t do something soon he was gonna trip and fall on his own knife next hunt or otherwise be even more completely useless.

 

And of course, because his life sucked like that, Dean ran into Sam before he ran into Cas. They weren’t trying to avoid each other, exactly, they were just… trying to avoid each other.

 

“You seen Cas?”

 

“Dunno, I think he’s in the greenhouse?”

 

“We have a greenhouse?” Dean asked, surprised, and hey, it wasn’t like he was gonna actually be able to keep his vow of not talking to Sam more than absolutely necessary.

 

“Yeah, spell stuff mostly. Monkshood, vervain, sage…” Sam was clearly about to go off on a lecture about the various herbs and their properties, and just for a second it was like old times, and then it was like they both suddenly remembered they weren’t supposed to be brothers anymore and he trailed off awkwardly. “Anyway, it’s off to the left,” he said, waving a hand. “He’s been hanging out there a lot since he moved in.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Dean said, hightailing it down the hallway.

 

And fuck him if there wasn’t a greenhouse, all glass and humidity and lush, blooming plants in shades of green Dean didn’t know the names for… and Dean wasn’t an expert, but if there wasn’t some angel mojo happening here then he was a fucking werewolf or something, ‘cause no greenhouse, Men of Letters or not, should look that good after so many decades of neglect. Hell, Lisa’s house plants had usually died after a few weeks, despite her best efforts to water and fertilize and mist and baby talk the damn things. 

 

And in the middle of this Greenhouse of Eden stood one angel with green thumbs and bluer eyes.

 

Dean swallowed a couple of times; whatever had died in his mouth had left it pretty dry. 

 

He suddenly felt like an ass, coming in and interrupting Cas’ communing with nature or whatever it was he was doing. Dude looked peaceful, for a change. He’d just decided he ought to just suck it up and leave when Cas turned towards him.

 

“Dean.” 

 

Cas was staring at him again. Which okay, pretty SOP, because apparently angels have freaky-ass tear ducts that don’t require blinking or something. Just more proof Cas was back to his old angel-tastic self.

 

It had to be weird, the whole angel -- weakened angel -- powered up angel -- godlike...thingy -- depowered angel -- crazy dude -- angel -- human -- angel thing. Shit, just thinking about it gave Dean whiplash, and he probably wasn’t even getting the fucking order right.

 

“Hey, Cas. Just realized I haven’t seen you much lately.” Which was true enough, and yet another thing for him to feel shitty about.

 

“I am having difficulty being around you right now, Dean.”

 

And ain’t that just the kicker? Of course Cas didn’t want to be around him either, not after Dean practically threw him out on Gadreel’s orders, thinking he was protecting Sammy. Cas had been alone and practically defenseless and Dean had abandoned him. Just another person he’d fucked over, blinded by his belief that he knew what was best for his brother. No wonder Cas didn’t want to be near him, most days Dean didn’t much want to be near himself, either. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, anyway, but he wasn’t gonna get it here. 

 

There was probably still some beer in the fridge or something. Dean turned to leave.

 

“Dean.” Dean stopped dead in his tracks, surprised by the note of command in the angel’s voice. It had been a while since he’d heard it. “You misunderstand me.” 

 

He didn’t bother to turn back around. “Nah, it’s cool, I got you. I’ll just...”

 

“Dean,” Cas said, again, and this time Dean did turn around, pulled as if by a magnet. 

 

And it’s Cas’ serious, I-am-staring-through-you-on-a-molecular-level face. Dean was too tired to visibly react, though he felt a slight tensing in his stomach. Though that could have just been the not eating for a while thing.

 

“Why are you here?”

  
  


Dean pulled a smirk out of some unknown last reserves of sarcasm. “Well, y’see, Cas, when my mom and my dad loved each other very much…”

 

Cas ignored him, proving he’d learned a thing or two about dealing with Dean. “You’re exhausted. Are you sleeping?”

 

Dean took a deep breath, ready to come up with… something, then gave up and let it back out as a sigh. He was just too damn tired. “Been kinda crazy.” He huffed a laugh, ‘cause even for him that was kind of an understatement. “Thought maybe you could…” he waved a hand around his head. “Dunno. Can’t sleep, lately.”

 

Cas was suddenly there, in front of him, and honestly? Right now Dean was too damn groggy to even be sure if he’d angel-bamfed or just walked quickly. “You should take better care of yourself.”

 

Dean should be telling him about the personal space thing again, it’s important, Cas was standing way too close, he could see all the different flecks of blue in his eyes, the tiny lines at the corners that get bigger when he smiles, he needed to tell Cas not to stand so damn close, even if he couldn’t for the life of him remember why. He huffed again. “Pot, kettle, dude. So, uh, can you…”

 

Cas reached a hand towards him, just like Dean had asked. Dean grabbed at Cas’ forearm, stopping it a few inches from his face. He could feel the strength through the trenchcoat, knew that Cas had stopped by choice and not because Dean could actually have stopped him. “Dean?” 

 

“Cas? You, uh…” Dean swallowed. “You gonna be around when I wake up?”

 

Castiel’s head tilted in familiar fashion, but there was a hint of amusement on his face, the corner lines slightly more pronounced. “I think experience has proven I will always come back to you.” 

  
Dean tried, and failed, not to be comforted by that statement. He felt fingertips brush against his forehead and then, finally, a welcome blackness.


	3. Black Dog (Supernatural, Dean/Castiel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Urban fantasy AU. On the darker side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black Dog is an urban fantasy AU that's rather darker than most of the others I'm working on.

***

 

Mary would never have forgiven him.

 

She’d hailed from a long family line of hunters, and while they’d had their differences… more, in the months before Sam’s birth… but this, he knew as he checked and rechecked the chalk markings on the floor and walls, this was unforgivable. It was small comfort that he’d also be ensuring he’d never see her again in this world or the next to be called to account.

 

He was doing it for Mary. For Sam, too, but with the honesty that comes from the bottom of an empty bottle of Jack, this was for her. Even if she’d never have wanted him to do it.

 

John’d thought about trying to do this sober first, given that fucking it up would take half of Kansas with him if he was lucky, but the shakes he’d probably get drying out’d probably have been as bad as being full-on drunk. He threw back a shot of whiskey to settle himself instead. After all, Mary wasn’t here to to stop him, dammit, was she, he reminded himself, throwing the empty glass at the furthest wall hard enough to shatter. She’d gone and gotten herself killed and now it was just him and he couldn’t fucking do this by himself anymore.

 

He glanced over at Sam, tucked into the tiny crib in the corner. Still sleeping, despite the noise. At least he knew the sleeping draught was working, he’d had to go very black market to get one an infant could handle, and the dosage was tricky. But Sam needed to be here and he needed to be quiet. Best of all, he wouldn’t remember any of this, and John could always lie about how he’d gotten the scar.

 

If this worked, they’d go someplace new, take what was left of the insurance payout and shake off the ashes of Lawrence for someplace that’s never heard of Campbells or Winchesters. John’ll just be a widower with two young sons. Sad, but not important. Anonymous. Forgotten. Protected. Safe. 

 

And after all, isn’t that what Mary had wanted?

 

He lit the first candle.

 

****


	4. Rock of Ages (Supernatural, Dean/Castiel)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, canon-lite bunker fic. 
> 
> In which Dean's conscious mind finally catches up to his subconscious when it comes to Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural, Dean/Castiel, canon-lite bunker fic. 
> 
> In which Dean's conscious mind finally catches up to his subconscious when it comes to Cas.

*** **Now listen to me** ***

 

It starts because they need a rock. Not, of course, just any rock, but apparently this particular critter needs an Aztec-style obsidian-and-jade dagger right through its human-teeth-and-eyeball-eating heart to actually kill it.

 

The area is way too conservative for any New Age witchy kinda places, so they end up at some rock shop in the middle of a strip mall. Only it’s a rock-and-jewelry shop, with a mix of strings of beads and carved chunks of rock and sparkly things in glass cases. He wonders what the hell the saleslady makes of them, still in their black Fed suits. At least the suits mean they look like they can afford shit here, she’d probably call the cops on them if they came in wearing their usual plaid. He just hopes the lady here has what they need, because if this doesn’t work they’ll have to rob a museum or something; they’re kinda on a tight schedule.

 

Sam always whines when they have to rob museums.

 

Sam’s trying to explain what they need to the saleslady, how it’s absolutely crucial that it’s nephrite and not jadeite, so Dean leaves him to it and wanders over to look around at the display cases. There are some crystal skulls that look right out of that one shitty Indiana Jones sequel and these kinda cool little trees out of twisted wire with bits of stone for the leaves.

 

Then he spots these rings. They’re all variations on pretty basic silver bands, kinda like his ring, but the texture is this strange criss-crossing pattern. Not like a regular grid, but more like someone’s scratched over the surface with a rough sandpaper in a million different directions, the lines softly catching the light. He’s bent over the case, turning his head left and right, trying to see what the little string tags say so he can figure out what the hell they’re made of (and seriously why are the tags so tiny and facing the wrong way? What’s the point of having a tag if you put them so you can’t read ‘em?)

 

The saleslady, who can probably smell interest, turns away from Sam to look over at him. She’s smiling in a way that’s meant to look friendly and approachable, but Dean’s been hunting for too long to not know a predator when he sees one. “Can I show you any of the rings?”

 

Dean immediately straightens and wraps his hands around his back. “Uh, no, just… looking.” She’s just about to go back to Sam’s question when he gives in and adds, “What are they made out of? The silver ones with the lines?”

 

She brightens, clearly sensing weakness. “Those are actually made of genuine meteorite, some of them over four million years old. Each tag says where they fell to earth.”

 

“Space rock?” Dean says, impressed in spite of himself. ‘Cause hey, space rock.

 

“Meteorites can provide balance and help activate the third chakra,” she adds unnecessarily. Dean’s already tuned her out, staring at the rings again. Space rock. Badass.

 

“So about the nephrite...” Sam says, drawing her attention back to him. 

 

Dean’s never been much of a jewelry guy; there’s Sam’s little bronze dude, of course, or at least there used to be, and there’s his ring, and a couple of wrist things he likes, but that’s it.

 

But there’s something about these rings that’s kind of compelling. Not in a One-Ring-to-Mordor sort of way, just a this-is-kinda-cool-looking sort of way. Man, what is his life that that’s a legit consideration.

 

What the fuck. It’s not like it’s his credit card anyway. “Actually, yeah, lemme see the rings.”

  
  



	5. The Sleep of Reason (Welcome to Night Vale Carlos/Cecil)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Night Vale, Carlos/Cecil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Night Vale, Carlos/Cecil

There is a tattoo of a bird on his arm. The bird is far from the only thing there; it is one part of a larger tapestry of ink covering his arms from shoulder to halfway up his forearm, and he suspects if he looks at the rest of his body he would find more, but the bird is the first thing that catches his eye.

 

The bird is red, a solid crimson like blood, except for a triangle of black over its eyes like the Lone Ranger’s mask. The head is also triangle shaped, with a tuft of feathers at the top that continues the strong diagonal line of the beak.

 

It’s a pretty bird, if you like that sort of thing. He has no idea if he does. Clearly, he liked it enough at one point to tattoo it on his body which has to mean something, but right now he doesn’t even know what species the fucking bird is, so knowing why it’s on his body seems next to impossible, like knowing the call it makes.

 

He stares at it intently, pokes it with a finger. It does nothing. Of course it does nothing, it’s ink injected into his dermal layer. Tattoos don’t _do_  anything, he knows. They’re just _there._  But he sort of remembers, even more vaguely than he remembers anything else, seeing a tattoo once, on someone’s arm… not his, the arm in question is white… and the design is moving, shifting under the man’s skin like something shallowly burrowing under the surface, growing and spreading to cover more and more area until it’s black, not African American but _black_  like the ocean at night, and he feels dizzy just remembering it. His stomach heaves again, but there’s nothing in it to throw up.

 

He strips down to his undershirt and boxers to examine the rest of his skin. Both arms are covered in designs up to a few inches before his wrists, and his calves are similarly marked. He pulls off his undershirt to find patterns across his chest as well; they’ve been there at least long enough for his body hair to have grown back, making some of the text harder to read. The designs are riotous, words and images, only some of which he can put a name to, spilling around each other on his skin as though a very talented artist had spent weeks doodling on his body.

 

It must mean something, the bird and the rest of it. It’s too purposeful, too detailed. This took time, and work, and commitment, and probably hurt like a bitch; he doesn’t think he’s the sort of person that would have these if he didn’t mean them, somehow. He doesn’t feel like he’s that sort of person, anyway.

 

He runs each hand over the arm opposite, then skims both hands over his calves, his thighs and chest. His skin is skin, and if it doesn’t feel familiar it at least doesn’t feel foreign either. There is nothing under his skin but the ink, and it is just ink. It does not move, it is inert, it is just a form of body adornment, it is fine, he may not know what it means but he will figure it out. He will figure himself out. 

 

He forces his breathing under control, slow and deliberate. In, out. Repeat. He will figure this out.

 

The doorknob turns. He makes a single lurch towards his discarded clothing before grabbing at the bed sheet instead, wrapping it around himself like a five year old pretending to be an emperor. It’s not just that he’s practically naked, it’s that he’s exposed, and he has no interest in anyone else reading the children’s picture book someone has made of his skin.

 

The man who enters the room doesn’t look like a threat, but he backs up anyway. His feet catch on the edge of the sheet and he stumbles. 

 

“Carlos!” the man says, rushing forward to catch him. His mind runs physics equations involving mass and acceleration while his body freezes, torn between the known dangers inherent in a fall and the unknown peril of letting this man get anywhere near him. The choice is removed as the stranger catches him inches before the ground does. 

 

He scrambles out of the man’s hold, or tries to. Either the stranger is much stronger than he looks, or he himself is far weaker than he feels, because even though it’s far from a death grip he can’t seem to get out. 

 

“Carlos!” the man says, again, and then a softer “Carlos. Please. It’s alright, just let me…” as he settles him back on the unmade bed. 

 

Is his name Carlos? He pokes at the nomenclature the way one might poke at a bruise, testing to see how it feels. It’s a working hypothesis, at least. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
